


Dawn Breaks Softly

by JayCKx



Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid, StarKid Productions RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dorks in Love, Early Mornings, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Making Out, Morning Cuddles, Neck Kissing, Stream of Consciousness, its mainly just fluff and quirrelmort being in love though. not that saucy, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayCKx/pseuds/JayCKx
Summary: Voldemort and Quirrell enjoy a sweet, early morning together.
Relationships: Quirinus Quirrell/Voldemort
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93





	Dawn Breaks Softly

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: Fellas, Is It Gay When Your Heart Goes Skrrra-pap-pap-ka-ka-ka-skidiki-pap-pap-and-a pu-pu-drrrr-boom-SKYAAA-du-du-ku-ku-tun-tun-poom-poom-BOOM Around Your Best Homie?

Voldemort woke up earlier than Quirrell this morning, a relatively rare occurrence considering that Quirrell usually had to get up early for teaching. _Wizard-God bless weekends_ , Voldemort thought, stretching out languidly from his curled up position. He and Quirrell had fallen asleep back-to-back with their heads just barely brushing each other, the same way they did every night. He luxuriated briefly in the slip of the soft sheets against his legs as he stretched them out, then turned his head to look at his boyfriend. The blankets had slipped down to around Quirrell’s waist, but all Voldemort could see was the back of Quirrell’s head and a flash of pale neck before it was swamped by the oversized t-shirt he wore to bed. His thin shoulders rose and fell gently, his breaths deep and soft with sleep, and the pale morning light that filtered mellowly through the curtains cast him in a sweet glow. As he gazed at the sight Voldemort felt something in his chest twist and swell—his heart, the cursed thing, he’d never felt it there before Quirrell—and he couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at his lips, pinching at his cheeks against his will until his expression showed every ounce of adoration he felt for the man lying next to him. Voldemort sharply turned his head back so he was facing the ceiling and closed his eyes, sighing happily, a pleased and quiet hum reverberating in the back of his throat. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face then reopened his eyes, rolling over as gently and slowly as possible so as not to disturb Quirrell. He propped his head up on his elbow, content to just watch his boyfriend sleep for a minute, no matter how creepy that sounded. Whatever, he was the ex-Dark Lord, he could watch his boyfriend nap if he wanted to! ...Except he couldn’t see Quirrell’s cute face from this angle, just his shoulders and soft-looking hair, so Voldemort glanced at the time. It was still relatively early, but not so early that Quirrell would be mad at being woken up. Perfect.

He inched himself closer to the other man, carefully looping one hand around Quirrell’s chest to rest on the mattress so he could hold himself up over Quirrell’s side. He blinked at Quirrell’s sleeping face, taking in the differences between how he looked now and how he looked while awake. It wasn’t often Voldemort got to see Quirrell asleep face to face, after all. His eyes were shut, obviously, his dark eyelashes brushing like feathers against his cheeks. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyebrows were relaxed. He looked… _peaceful_ , like this. Not that he didn’t usually look peaceful, but, well, their life could be stressful sometimes, and Quirrell’s anxiety meant he was often frowning, or biting his lip, or jittering his hands around. Here he looked calm, completely tranquil. Voldemort couldn’t bring himself to move for a moment, every piece of him unwilling to break that sense of peacefulness in his boyfriend.

Ha, peace. What a concept. It wasn’t so long ago that Voldemort would have riled at the very thought of desiring peace, of wanting to keep it intact. He’d always thrived on chaos; it was all he’d ever known. He'd grown up without a moment's reprieve from the mockery of other children and the scorn from every adult he met. He’d spent most of his adult life lording over others who sought out only hatred, who wanted to cause pain and suffering, who wanted to fight and conquer. He’d been single-minded in his quest to wreak havoc upon a world that had never given him a single good thing. And then, suddenly, it did. He got Quirrell; sweet Quirrell who planted flowers and read books and drank tea and, yeah, helped Voldemort plot to murder children and take over the world as the Dark Lord. But that was over now, that was behind them both. Quirrell who somehow wormed his way so deeply inside Voldemort’s heart, and vice-versa, that even when Voldemort was destroyed a piece of him remained there. _Wasn’t it ironic_ , Voldemort mused, _that it was love that saved Harry Potter, who he’d tried to kill for so long, and love that also saved **him** in return_. 

Quirrell had made him soft. Now the idea of holding onto that burning hatred seemed ridiculous in the face of the tender love he could feel instead. The idea of taking over the world, of ruling _everything_ as an evil king so everything could be exactly how he wanted it was just… tiring. Why do that when he could be living here with Quirrell instead? In their little home with the flower gardens and the bookshelves and the potions cauldron and their big bed? Hell, he didn’t even know if what _he_ wanted was exclusively the best thing anymore—sometimes Quirrell did things or bought things home that Voldemort never would’ve thought of, but which made everything nicer. Quirrell had drastically changed Voldemort’s entire life, and Voldemort couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad about it. He was just… _glad_. He used to think love was overrated; ridiculous fairy-tale things that idiots swore they felt, but now that he had Quirrell everything was different. He’d never felt anything like it before, but Quirrell had accidentally taught him how to love simply by being himself. He’d never been happy before, either, but now he was happy every single day. Hell, Quirrell shooting him a small smile was enough for Voldemort’s heart to skip a beat and his elation levels to go haywire. It _was_ ridiculous, but discovering he could feel that way was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

He gazed down at his boyfriend while he thought, and his heart did that dumb _skip-jump-twist-inflate-flutter_ thing again. It was like he had a ballerina in his chest, and every time he looked at Quirrell she started spinning and jumping around. Voldemort sighed quietly, trying to relieve the joyous feeling expanding in his chest, and his gaze dropped from the side of Quirrell’s face to his exposed neck. _Aha! Excellent_. Voldemort narrowed in on it like it was a target, drawn to the swath of soft, pale skin like a moth to a flame. He dotted a quick kiss against the side of it, and for the first time since Voldemort awoke Quirrell stirred slightly. He moved his head against his pillow slightly and scrunched up his expression. Voldemort watched him for a moment, not sure if he was awake or not, before his attention got caught by the long stretch of neck in front of him again. He bent down and pressed another soft kiss against Quirrell’s neck, then another one slightly higher up. When he pressed a third, lingering one at the junction of his neck and jaw the man receiving them finally let Voldemort know he was awake, humming in pleasure and stretching out slightly before curling back up into the warmth of his spot on the mattress. 

He nuzzled back into Voldemort, who propped himself up to see Quirrell’s expression. Quirrell had a happy little smile on his face, though his eyes remained closed in sleepy bliss. Now satisfied that his boyfriend was conscious and he wouldn’t abruptly wake him up by doing so, Voldemort let his arms give out and lowered himself down, his upper-half sprawling over Quirrell’s side and shoulder while his legs tangled themselves with the other man’s. He wrapped an arm around Quirrell’s stomach and peppered more airy kisses over his neck, light and loving.

“G’morning,” Quirrell mumbled, head tilting slightly towards Voldemort as he spoke. His voice was deep and rough with sleep, a beautiful sound. Voldemort pressed one last long kiss against his porcelain skin then pulled away again, hovering over Quirrell and smiling softly.

“Morning, squirrel,” he hummed. To his joy, he got to see Quirrell’s eyelashes flutter for a second then his eyes slowly open, their warm hazel colour revealed slowly and sleepily. Quirrell’s eyes focused on him and then his smile broke into a grin, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. His eyes squinted up with joy and he blinked heavily, sliding one hand down to the hand Voldemort had curled around his stomach and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a kiss against the knuckles. Voldemort’s stomach tingled at the sweet action and he smiled goofily at Quirrell in a way that was very unbecoming of an ex-Dark Lord. He shook his head then ducked it down, flustered, hiding his face in the junction of Quirrell’s neck. Quirrell laughed softly and laced their fingers together, holding their joined hands against his chest as he flipped onto his back and began to comb his free fingers through Voldemort’s hair. It was soft and un-gelled this early in the morning, silvery strands hanging around his face. Quirrell tucked a strand behind Voldemort’s ear then leaned in to press a kiss against his temple.

“That’s a nice way to wake up,” he hummed after a moment. Voldemort peeked up from where he was leaning into Quirrell’s shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?” Quirrell nodded happily, sparkling gaze trained on the ceiling. Voldemort dipped his head back down and pressed a kiss against Quirrell’s collarbone, then another.

“Love you, squirrel,” he said quietly, because the buoyant feeling in his chest demanded it.

“I love you too,” Quirrell said easily, his tone glaringly sincere. He said it like there was no other option, as if the thought of doing anything _but_ loving Voldemort had never even crossed his mind. To be loved so effortlessly and naturally, with no hint of falsehood or ulterior motive, it was nothing like Voldemort had ever known before. To be loved by someone who truly knew him, inside and out; who’d seen the good parts, the bad parts, the honest truths and even the hidden sides Voldemort had sworn nobody would ever see; to not only be completely known, not only unconditionally accepted, but _loved_ , well… it was mind-blowing, actually. Voldemort had never been loved by anyone before. Followed, yeah. Worshipped, sure. Lusted after, definitely. Envied, undoubtedly. Feared, _yes_ , by _most_ , even his most loyal devotees. But loved? Never. Until Quirrell.

 _Wizard-God_ , Quirrell was special. Voldemort couldn’t get enough of him. And, luckily for him, Quirrell couldn’t seem to get enough of Voldemort either.

“You’re so special,” Voldemort sighed his thoughts, pressing his lips against Quirrell’s collarbone and slipping a hand up his oversized shirt to rest on his hip. Quirrell hummed in surprise, turning his head slightly to look at Voldemort questioningly. “I’ve never loved anyone before, squirrel. Then you come along and suddenly my world’s all… flowers and sparkles and all that shit.” He spoke the words into Quirrell’s chest, not willing to look him in the eyes while he was being particularly vulnerable. Quirrell was quiet for a moment, and then,

“...S-sorry?” he stuttered, his tone unsure and questioning. Voldemort snorted a laugh and looked up, his caution gone in the face of his boyfriend’s own awkwardness.

“Don’t apologise, baby, it’s not a bad thing,” he smiled. Quirrell relaxed when he saw Voldemort wasn’t upset and smiled back at him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You just make me… feel new things. Good things! But I can feel them bubble up in my chest and sometimes I swear my heart’s not big enough to hold all the love for you I have in it,” Voldemort rambled. Quirrell’s lips parted in surprise, his eyes widening, and a light pink blush filled his cheeks. Then his expression turned impossibly soft, and his hands came up to cup Voldemort’s face tenderly. He pulled Voldemort in for a kiss; his lips were satin-soft but firm where they pressed into Voldemort’s. They held the kiss for a few moments, Quirrell not seeming to want to break apart. When they did he pressed their foreheads together for a few seconds then tugged Voldemort in for another quicker, gentler kiss.

“I’ve never been in love before either, Voldemort,” he said when they separated. Voldemort’s grey eyes searched his brown ones attentively as Quirrell spoke, the man seeming confident in a way he only showed in Voldemort’s presence. “But I’m glad it’s you I’m in love with now. You’re-” he exhaled, searching for words before shaking his head and smiling. “You’re perfect, love. I don’t even know how to describe it, but I feel the same way. You make my heart skip a beat every time you smile at me, and you’ve been s-smiling at me for quite a while now so you’d think it’d die down, but apparently not. I just… love you. I’m yours forever, Voldemort,” he said. Voldemort blinked at him, stunned. He knew Quirrell loved him, but Jesus, man, how is Voldemort even supposed to react to a speech like that?

Voldemort struggled for words for a minute, then gave up and decided to surge forward instead, kissing Quirrell in a way that hopefully got everything he was feeling across. By the delighted way Quirrell responded, his arms coming up to cradle Voldemort against him and his mouth moving eagerly with Voldemort’s, he succeeded. This kiss was faster than the others they’d shared that morning, one of Voldemort’s hands cupping the back of Quirrell’s head and feeling the slide of his soft hair through his fingers, the other continuing its search up Quirrell’s warm, flat torso. His skin was smooth and his muscles twitched under Voldemort’s wandering hand. Voldemort might not always be the best at _speaking_ his feelings, but he’d say he’s pretty good at _showing_ them…

He pulled away from the kiss, Quirrell’s mouth chasing him until Voldemort fit his face in the crook of his neck, kissing swiftly along the column of his throat then nipping at the side of his neck, soothing the sting with a lick and soft kiss. Quirrell hissed quietly in approval and tilted his head back, giving Voldemort better access to his neck. Voldemort moved downwards further and kissed his shoulder, then hooked his finger in the neckline of Quirrell’s shirt and pulled it aside so he could mouth at the skin below his collarbone and bite gently at it, sucking a bruise onto the fair skin. It wasn’t a very hard feat considering how baggy Quirrell’s sleeping shirt was, but Quirrell raised his arms and Voldemort leaned away, pulling his other hand out from under the shirt where it had been resting on Quirrell’s stomach then sliding the shirt off Quirrell completely. He took a moment to fold it, which made his boyfriend groan in fond exasperation even though Voldemort rushed it and it wasn’t very neat, then tossed it on the end of the bed.

He quickly returned to his boyfriend, leaning in for a kiss. The soft slide of Quirrell’s tongue against his own was _excellent_. His toes curled at the feeling, and he deepened the kiss fervently. Quirrell’s hands came up to grip Voldemort’s biceps, feeling him up shamelessly as he arched into the kiss. Voldemort was suddenly glad he slept shirtless. He ran his hands up Quirrell’s sides, then gently pressed him back down into the mattress. _Gently_. Voldemort never used to be gentle, he’d liked being rough and so had the people he’d been with—just ask Bellatrix Lestrange! _Actually, ew, no, don’t think of Bellatrix right now_ , he scolded himself. But Quirrell brought out something different in Voldemort. He didn’t _want_ to be rough with Quirrell, and it wasn’t because Quirrell was fragile or anything (although he _was_ quite thin, and Voldemort was _definitely_ stronger than him). It was more like the idea of possibly hurting Quirrell was abhorrent to Voldemort, especially considering Quirrell had been hurt enough in his life already. And the knowledge that Voldemort had caused some of that pain was enough to stop him from ever doing anything that could hurt Quirrell ever again, including being too strong or careless. And it was also the fact that he felt, deep down into his very bones, that Quirrell was one-of-a-kind and deserved to be cherished like the treasure that he was.

Quirrell rested his head comfortably on his thick pillow and bared his neck, watching Voldemort through lidded eyes and a coy smile. Voldemort ducked his head to press kisses along his boyfriend’s delicate throat, then across his chest, his thumbs mindlessly rubbing circles into Quirrell’s jutting hip bones. Quirrell sighed happily.

“Yep, _d-definitely_ a nice way to wake up,” he grinned. Voldemort grinned back and winked at him, then pushed himself up on his hands and knees, boxing Quirrell in. Quirrell didn’t look nervous about this at all; rather the opposite, actually. He looked delighted, staring up at Voldemort with flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and a blinding smile, his hair rumpled both from sleep and Voldemort’s hands.

Wizard-God, Voldemort loved him so much it hurt.

“C’mere, squirrel,” he muttered, catching Quirrell’s chin in one hand and pulling him up for a kiss. Quirrell met him halfway, his lips soft and barely able to stop smiling against Voldemort’s. Voldemort settled down between his legs and kissed him once, twice, then pulled away and set about showing Quirrell _exactly_ how strongly he felt for him.

\--

Later that morning Voldemort stood at the kitchen window, staring out at their garden as he buttered toast and enjoyed the smell of brewing coffee. The sun had risen fully now, its golden light warming the grass and glinting like glass off the dew that decorated the leaves of Quirrell’s beloved plants. Some of his flowers were starting to bloom—Voldemort quite liked the purple flowers that grew with a chequered pattern naturally occurring along their petals. Quirrell called them _snake’s heads_ ; Voldemort knew he’d planted them just for him, and it endeared him greatly to both the flowers and his boyfriend. 

At that thought he heard Quirrell’s soft footsteps pad into the room and across to Voldemort. His arms appeared around Voldemort’s waist and wrapped happily around him, Quirrell hugging him from behind and pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his neck.

“Mm, food,” his boyfriend hummed. Voldemort snorted and turned around in his embrace, placing two bits of toast on a plate and holding it out to his boyfriend. Quirrell’s hair was still damp and curling from his shower, and he smelled of soap and aftershave. He was wearing a fluffy dressing gown. Voldemort couldn’t believe how fond he was of this fool. Quirrell took the plate but immediately set it back on the counter, leaning back contentedly and holding himself in place with his arms wrapped around Voldemort’s waist. Voldemort raised an eyebrow.

“It’s going to go cold,” he pointed out. Quirrell shrugged, a smile playing at his lips.

“I don’t mind cold toast,” he said. Voldemort wrinkled his nose.

“Quirrell, you’re an animal,” he scoffed. “I certainly mind!” To prove his point he picked up his own piece of toast and crunched a loud bite out of it, raising an eyebrow daringly at his boyfriend. Quirrell gave him a bemused look.

“ _I’m_ the animal? Says you!” he exclaimed, steadying himself on his feet and untangling one hand from around Voldemort’s waist to brush his fingers over his own neck, now covered in purpling bruises. Voldemort winced and swallowed his mouthful, grabbing Quirrell’s hand and pulling it away from the bruises to press it to his lips and give it a small kiss, reminiscent of how Quirrell had kissed his earlier that morning.

“Sorry about that, darling,” he murmured. Quirrell shrugged, body language relaxed.

“I don’t mind. You’d better hope I can cover them up by M-Monday, though,” he warned jokingly, then pressed a kiss against Voldemort’s cheek and disentangled himself from Voldemort so he could fill two cups of coffee. He picked up his plate of toast and twirled out of the kitchen into the lounge, plopping himself down on the couch and placing his mug carefully on the coffee table in front of it. Voldemort followed him easily, slinking down next to him and looping an arm around Quirrell’s shoulders, pulling him in so he was resting against Voldemort. He sighed in contentment, taking a sip of his steaming coffee. Quirrell leaned bonelessly against Voldemort’s chest, happily munching on his toast.

“Do you want me to read to you?” he asked eventually, eyes catching on the bookmarked book resting on the coffee table. Voldemort wasn’t much of a reader, but he liked hearing Quirrell’s voice and seeing how into the novels he got. It had become a sort of ritual for them, to sit on the couch or lie in bed when they were both in a good mood and have Quirrell read aloud so Voldemort could engage in his favourite stories. Quirrell knew the books so thoroughly that he barely stuttered when he spoke the lines, too, which Voldemort knew he was proud of.

“I should wake you up like that more often,” Voldemort mused, and reached over Quirrell to grab the book. Quirrell raised an amused eyebrow at him, but obediently flipped open the pages. 

“It was okay,” he said nonchalantly. Voldemort stared at him, then tossed his head back and laughed, wrapping his arm tighter around his boyfriend’s shoulders and pulling him closer. He knocked the sides of their heads together gently. Quirrell didn’t bother biting back his grin as he stared at the words on the page.

“Ah, _wonderful_ ,” Voldemort crowed, and pressed a kiss to Quirrell’s temple. “I love you, squirrel.”

“Love you too, Voldemort.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr @rainbowhidgens](http://rainbowhidgens.tumblr.com)


End file.
